


back in groove

by fyborg23



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Curtain Fic, Kid Fic, M/M, Post-Divorce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 21:45:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8029969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: Shea can barely look at his reflection in the glass. He knows he’s a mess. He feels like a mess.
-or, how Shea got his groove back.





	back in groove

**Author's Note:**

> a kid fic that only came into existence because of an anon asking me:
>
>> a Concept: suter and shea as tired divorcees with kids trying to Make It Work, carting kids back and forth to hockey practice in vans, casting deathly glowers when one of them brings their new item to the games DAMMIT it's the little league PLAYOFFS SUTES don't bring your hot new piece of midwestern ass to the stands and act like it's all okay
> 
> and I was very much encouraged to write it. cross-posted from tumblr. 

Shea tugs Becket close by his coat sleeve, “Don’t run across parking lots!” People are  _looking_ , and Shea doesn't look back. 

Shea pushes his glasses up, not even trying to bite back a sigh. Fucking Saturdays. Malley smirks down at Becket, smug in her hockey gear, and crosses her eyes at Becket. Shea’s too annoyed to call her on it, and strokes Carter’s soft hair before he adjusts the baby wrap. His diaper bag is just a little too big, but it’s his turn to provide snacks for Malley’s hockey team this week. Hopefully none of the other parents will bitch about them being fruit roll-ups.

Try giving a snack that 20 kids will _all_ like. It’s a bitch.

The arena’s not much warmer than outside, the cold biting at Shea’s cheeks when they step in. Malley slips into the locker room, and Shea gives her a thumbs up before Becket asks if he can play on his gameboy. Shea raises his eyebrow and Becket rolls his eyes but he does say _please_. Shea settles carefully down on the lowest row, watching the parents file in. Most of them look like classic Hockey Moms, pressed hair and done nails, and Shea strokes Carter’s back, adjust the small Canucks cap on him before he sighs.

He’s been wearing these sweatpants for two weeks straight. He ran out of contacts a month ago and still hasn’t been able to get his prescription filled, so he’s stuck with glasses that come straight from his Nickelback phase. The baby wrap covers up a little patch of vomit Carter gave him earlier this morning, after just a little too much milk, and Shea can barely look at his reflection in the glass. He knows he’s a mess. He _feels_ like a mess.

Maybe the kids will just run drills today, and Becket will get to level 99 of Tetris and Shea can close his eyes for just fifteen minutes--

His eyes fly open in dismay. Fuck. It’s _Ryan's_  weekend, and Ryan didn’t even turn up on Friday to pick them up. Shea knows Ryan’d have the gall to come to practice, to watch Malley skate and pretend that they’re still a functioning family unit despite Ryan screwing the fuck out of what-his-face. Shea makes himself take a deep breath. Thinks about that youtube video of a nice island and a calm voice telling him to let it the fuck go.

Ryan shows up, with that. _Man_ in tow, who grins at Carter before he says, “Hi?”

Shea glares up at them–- fuck no, he’s not getting up–- and says, “Nice to see you. Where were you yesterday?” He strokes Carter, watches Malley give Connor a mean tap on the shins before she scoots far away. He frowns, and looks back at Ryan.

Ryan rubs the back of his neck, turning pink as he mutters, “Something came up.” _Zach_ turns to Becket and says, “Hi, there, sport.”

Becket just squints and says, “My name is Becket.” And turns back to his Tetris. Rude as fuck, but Shea can’t help pressing his lips into a smirk. His kids may have Ryan’s goddamn green eyes, and their names may come from _Ryan_ , but they all got the rest of _him_.

Shea smiles, “I’m just going to stretch my legs. _Ryan_. Watch _our_ son.”

He doesn’t offer to get them any hot cocoa. Cheating liars don’t get hot cocoa. He walks up the stairs carefully, and sighs when he gets onto the so-called concourse. Fuck, stairs were never this hard before the epi. He orders the largest cocoa, pays 3 bucks for it, and then just. Walks.

A handsome guy huffs and puffs his way up the stairs, hissing, “Please, tell me the ten-unders are in this building,” and Shea points down at the ice. Handsome guy curses, and Shea covers Carter’s ears on instinct, “Do you mind? I’m trying to be a good influence on my kids.”

“Sorry,” he says, the O just a little muffled, looking a little abashed, and the bitch of it is, Shea can see this guy is really good looking. Like. Why are they even conversing. The guy sticks his hand out, “Roman. I’m the new assistant coach for the ten-unders,” and Shea grins as he takes Roman’s hand.

“Shea. Watch out for number 7. Just like her dad,” Shea says.

Roman looks him up and down, raises an eyebrow, “Uncannily good sense of direction and very tall?” Roman’s got an accent, maybe German, but Shea’s not going to be rude and pry. Not when Roman looks like he’s having second thoughts about going down those steps and running drills with the kids.

Shea laughs, “Well, you could say that.” Roman smiles, and taps the side of his nose, “I’ll have a talk with--"

“Malley,” Shea supplies. Roman nods, says, “It was nice to meet you, Shea.” He turns on his heel, and jogs down the stairs, past Ryan, who turns and looks at him before he looks back at Shea. Shea keeps watching Roman until he slips behind the bench, those pants doing nothing to hide his ass. An ass worth getting out of bed to watch. Even the Hockey Moms agree, fanning their faces behind Roman’s back.

But Shea was the one to talk to him first. He looks back at Ryan, huffing as he gets closer to Shea, his face oddly red. Ryan frowns, and frowns even more when Shea slurps loudly at his cocoa and saunters down the stairs, with a _‘cuse me_.

#

Shea sighs, grateful that he could leave Carter with a babysitter because… that was a practice from hell. Not that Malley seems disturbed by her nose having wads of paper towels stuffed up it, skipping in her purple coat with a Riveters patch sown on the back, straying just a little ahead of Shea. Becket actually seems to be delighting in the fact he got to punch the other team’s goalie who was _trying to run away_ , shaking and staring at his fist like one of his games.

There’d be no TV for next week. No gameboy for Becket.

Shea unlocks the van, vaguely thinking about how best to lecture the twins when he sees a well-formed ass bending over the open hood of the POS car directly across from the van. Shea calls, “You need help?”

Roman sticks his head out, almost braining himself on the hood, and shooting it an irritated look before he breathes, “Yes. _Please_.” Roman shoots Malley a stern look, and she just shrugs. Shea steps closer, frowning at the engine–- it’s a shitty 1.5 liter and the battery is older than his own kids. He straightens up, asks Roman, who’s been staring intently, “Do you have any cables?”

Shea knows the answer is _no_ , even before Roman pulls his toque down, “Um, no?” his face turning red from the cold. Malley sniffs–- impressive with her nose full of towels-– “Daddy has them!”

Roman quirks an eyebrow, those eyes _glinting_ , and Shea’s abruptly, rudely aware of his grey sweatpants, his NIN band shirt, and his North Face that still has a gob of milk on the collar. Roman smiles, and looks at Malley, “Good thing _Daddy’s_ so prepared, eh?”

Shea stares at the van to hide the strange heat in his face. He clears his throat, and points at the twins, “Stay with Roman.” He raises an eyebrow just to underline just how much they’re still in the doghouse. Becket pouts, but he doesn’t try to move. Shea pulls the jumper cables up from the trunk, tossing a Happy Meal toy across the van, and opens the van hood.

Shea asks Roman, “Is your ignition off?”

Roman rolls his eyes, “Oh, yes, I would put my fingers into a powered engine.”

“Happened to Sac-kick!” Becket says, “Lost three fingers, the snowblower ate them up,” clearly relishing the imaginary horror of losing fingers, and Malley smirks, “He had to quit hockey.”

Roman’s trying not to laugh, his lips pressed together, and he thumps his thigh as he takes a deep breath, “Well, they just got _mangled_ ,” curling his fingers up into crooked curves, “and he went all ‘agggh!!! aggh!!! Who will now be the captain of the Avs! I am ruined!”

“Ob-vi-ously,” Becket replies, and Shea presses his face against his arm, hiding his snicker. Becket’s been in a little love with the word, and he hopes he turns it on that fucking hussy next week. Shea clears his throat, puts the red to the positive terminal on his battery, then the other red to Roman’s battery.

“Now, kids,” Shea says, “This is the important part. You take this black cable here–” he holds it up– “and put it to the little terminal on the _other_ car.” He hooks up the negative cable to Roman’s car, then to his.

He then snaps the last black clip like an alligator, “And you put this clip onto this little metal thing,” Shea says, “That way we don’t-–”

“Blow up!” Malley says, waving her hands around in an imaginary mushroom cloud.

What in the fuck are the twins watching when Ryan has them?

Shea shakes his head, and asks Roman, “Stand back, I’m going to start the car.” Shea looks at the kids, and they scoot back with Roman. He starts the van, letting it run–- his dad had said about three minutes when he showed Shea this, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth–- and he times himself. Roman’s managed to get Malley and Becket to stay with him, which is a goddamn miracle, and Shea shuts off the van engine.

He gets out, and Roman asks, “Should I try now?”

“Yeah,” Shea says, and watches Roman climb in, and try to turn over his engine. It doesn’t work, and Roman calls his car something in German that’s definitely a bad word. Shea idly wonders about reviving his bad high school French for those special texts he gets from Ryan, but no. His kids are too damn smart. Carter’d probably toss out a _le fuckque_ as a first word and totally shock Shea’s former-mother-in-law who is a very sweet and god-fearing woman. Shame.

Roman shoots them an embarrassed look, and mutters, “Sorry.”

“Thanks,” Shea says, “Hard to cover four ears.”

“We’re _eight_ ,” Malley drawls, sounding very world-weary, and Roman nods, “But I should be a good example, eh? Or at least not say the first word in my head.”

Malley raises her eyebrows, clearly making a connection, and then narrows her eyes, “Carson was poking my butt the entire game!”

“Did you tell the ref?” Roman asks, and the dead silence follows really means no, she didn’t. Shea frowns. That sneaky little shit–-

Roman gets on his knees, and says to Malley, “And that’s not cool. Against the rules. But refs can’t see everything. Here, let me tell you a little secret. Next time that–-” he breaks off, picks a g-rated word, “kid bothers you, you fall down and act very mad. It won’t be hard. Because you were mad, right?”

“Daddy calls that diving!” Malley says, and Roman sneaks a look up at Shea, and smirks. “Not a fan of the Habs, Shea? Malley, it’s only diving if you fall down and no one touched you. If you fall down after Carson pokes you, the ref will see it and–-”

“Power play,” Malley says, her eyes narrowing in glee. Jesus, it’s like seeing into a mirror sometimes.

Shea clears his throat, and says, “ _Thank_ you, Coach Roman.”

Roman straightens up, and rubs the back of his neck, “Do you mind if I bum a ride?”

Shea very carefully does not think about bumming anything else. He shrugs, “Sure. This is a seat-belt zone, just so you know.”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Roman says, looking up through his eyelashes, and Shea feels sweat prickle down his back despite the smell of snow in the air.

Le fuckque.

#

Shea has spent weeks of careful searching, feeding Carter while doing phone interviews, making tomato sauce as he tries to figure how in the fuck to work github’s search function, and going through the time tables with Becket and Malley while he thinks about bullshit interview questions.

He’s finally found something close to ideal– part-time, remote work, decent pay. Hockey and games are pricey. Baby day care is expensive and hell, according to other parents’ war stories. Shea would like to come home to all _three_ of his children. And not having Ryan hold his fucking alimony checks over his head like it fucking _matters_ would be. Nice.

Shea gets the interview the Saturday the kids are with Ryan and that Zach. It’s glorious to be able to have _five_ minutes to himself, to jerk off to a video that happens to be tagged _euro_ and to take a hot, long shower afterwards. When he steps out, wiping steam off the mirror, he considers shaving, wincing at the creep of his beard down his neck. It was a pain in the ass to grow it. He doesn’t miss having to shave everyday. Or having to buy clean razors twice a month.

He trims it. 

Shea pulls on a new pair of pants. Actual pants. With pockets and a zip-up fly. That he has to wear with a belt. Looking in the mirror, he runs a hand over his stomach, and he doesn’t– look so bad? He’s softer than he was a few years back. Stress, having Carter, more stress, no time. Shea can deal. Especially since he divorced his biggest stressor.

He picks out his lucky tie.

Which is just as lucky as it was 13 years ago, and Shea has a new job. He walks into the rink, whistling and waves at Roman, who waves very slowly back from his position on the ice. The rest of the parents stare at Shea, and Cindy says very faintly, “You’re looking… nice.”

“Got a job,” Shea says, baring his teeth in a smile, and then sits down next to Becket. Becket looks up from his game, his eyes bugging out in a little _help me_. Shea puts his finger up to his lips, _shh_ and asks, “Are you on level 11 yet?”

“No,” Becket growls, smashing the _A_ button, “I keep running out of hearts.” Ryan quirks a smile, which falters when he looks away from Becket and at Shea.

Shea leans back, “Hopefully the kids were good?” carefully observing the deep undereye circles on Ryan, and how Zach’s holding Carter like a gas bomb. Ryan mouths _fuck off_ and Shea grins.

He looks at Zach, “Burp him.”

“This is _Burberry_ ,” Zach hisses, pointing at his scarf. Shea shrugs, “Blot with water. I’m sure it’ll come out.”

Zach narrows his eyes, and carefully taps Carter’s back, grimacing at those soft burping noises, and sighs when Carter subsides, falling asleep against the Burberry check. Shea bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to bask in his pettiness. Blotting only works with fresh baby spit, and well–

It’s not like Zach can’t afford a new one. Shea watches the game, hollers when Malley does an excellent stick swipe, while Ryan begrudgingly claps. He looks at Shea, and says carefully, “You’re in a good mood.”

“Yes.” Shea watches the ice, drifting occasionally to Roman leaning on the bench and shouting out encouragement. Roman slides his eyes off the ice during an icing, and Shea licks his lips when Roman snaps his eyes back. Shea hopes Roman got his car fixed. Or replaced.

They don’t win the game, but that’s hockey.

Zach cringes when he looks at his scarf, and Shea takes Carter from him, stroking his back and calling him a good boy. Ryan and Zach can’t get the fuck out soon enough, and Ryan rushes the good byes with Malley and Becket, ruffling both of their hair and telling them to be _good for Daddy_ before he shoots Shea an excuse about how he has to meet Zach’s mother.

Shea raises his eyebrow, and Ryan ducks his head before he jogs up the stairs, trailing behind Zach. Not even a good lie this time. Shea wanders closer to the changing rooms, giving the Man Nod to David before he sees Malley, her face almost as red as her sweater.

Malley pulls her skates off, tears the tape off her socks and tosses the balled-up tape into the garbage bin. Shea waits, and she shakes her head, “Ced’s got a weak glove-–”

Roman closes the door behind him, his eyebrows raised, “Don’t blame Ced. She did her best. It’s hard being a goalie-–”

“Hard being a D,” Malley mutters, and Becket snorts. What are they watching when Ryan’s got them.

“Look, I used to play defense,” Roman says, “Not always easy. Forwards are annoying.” Shea snorts, and Roman looks at Shea, who nods, “Yeah, I always got stuck with the D in school.”

Roman clears his throat, “Goalies know they can win a game or lose a game. It’s a lot. They’re by themselves. You have Jibril to back you up. Ced doesn’t. And she plays the entire game. A good defense looks out for their goalies. If not you, then who?”

Malley sticks her chin out, “Me.” Becket sticks his tongue out at her, and she does it back, making Roman roll his eyes.

“Y'know, I was hoping I could get Becket to play but-–”

Shea grins. Becket looks up at Roman and says, “Hockey stinks.”

Roman raises his eyebrows, “Why?”

Becket shrugs, “Pads are gross,” making a disgusted face. Roman shrugs, “Fair enough. Want to protect your nose, I get it.”

Shea grins, “I don’t think I can smell much after all of those years,” and Roman looks up at him, his lips pressed together in a smirk. Becket nudges Shea, “Can we go out?”

“Yeah, why not?” Shea says, shifting Carter on his hip, “Roman, do you want to come with?”

“I don’t want to be a bother,” Roman tries, and Shea waves a hand, “Please. Your car died last week. Bet you’ve been trying to get another one. I think you deserve something. I’ll pay.”

Roman flushes a little, “Um. Ok,” and smiles at the twins, “So where are we going?”

#

Macaroni Grill isn’t Shea’s _favorite_ place, but they provide crayons and paper tablecloths, so they go. Roman clears his throat when they take their seats, and asks, “Really, I could spot the tip at least–”

Shea puts his hand over Roman’s, and says quietly, “I got it. Just make sure none of the kids draw decapitated people again.”

“Again?” Roman breathes, “You Canadians are so violent.” Shea twitches an eyebrow. Roman shrugs, “People like to gossip with me.”

“And they gossip about me,” Shea drawls.

Roman licks his lips, “You’re very mysterious. Very intimidating in those sweatpants of yours, Daddy.”

Shea feels blood rushing to his face, and he tries to laugh it off, letting go of Roman’s hand and looking at the salad list. God. Green stuff. With bacon. He settles for a vinaigrette steak salad, dressing on the side, and Roman looks longingly at the steak list.

“Are you living off ramen?” Shea asks.

“Well. Insurance is evil. So for a while, probably, yes,” Roman says, tapping a blue crayon over the drawing of a small pool of red Becket’s making drip from a T. Rex’s teeth, “Is that tomato sauce?”

“No, it’s a dead brontosaurus,” Becket says. Roman hums, and drinks his water. He draws a sheep. Which is stupidly good-looking like him, but Shea can keep that observation to himself. At least Malley isn’t using crayons to draw Xena, Warrior Princess, running through Hercules. Yet.

Shea says, “Go for the steak. You’d need the energy, _Coach_.”

Becket gets his usual–- chicken fingers-– and Malley gets spaghetti. Carter isn’t fussing much, mostly staring at the pretty colors on the paper tablecloth and playing with one of Shea’s croutons.

Dinner-– it’s easy. Not tense, and Shea can’t remember the last time when it wasn’t just him and the kids. Shea doesn’t want it to end. Roman smiles at Shea, and says, “Thank you. It was nice to eat something not from a microwave.”

Shea mock-gasps, “You don’t cook.”

Roman rubs a hand through his hair, and shrugs, “I don’t even have a stove?” Malley looks up, and says, “You’re going to starve, Coach.”

Roman looks at her, and then back at Shea, shaking his head, “You two–- you _four_ ,” looking down at Carter wrapping a hand around his finger, waving it like his own stick. Shea shrugs, “Look, if you ever want some home cooking, you know who to ask.”

Shea slaps the bill away from Roman, and covers it with his hand when he signs for it. Roman narrows his eyes and says, “I owe you,” and Shea smirks, “I’m sure you’re good for it.”

They walk out of the restaurant. Roman helps Shea strap the kids in, and Shea slides the van door closed Roman presses a hand on Shea’s arm, and looks back at his ‘new’ car before he looks back at Shea, his head tilted up just a little. Even in the dim yellow light Roman looks good, and Shea presses closer, just to hear what he’s got to say–-

Roman says, “Thank you,” and brushes a kiss on Shea’s mouth. Shea covers his lips, tingling with _Roman_ , and Roman bites his lip–- “Sorry, just me being Euro–-”

Shea snorts, “They kiss each other on the mouth in _Switzerland_?”

“Eavesdropper–-” Roman says, “Yes.”

“And if they like it, do they do it again?” Shea strokes Roman’s arm, leaning closer.

“Probably, yes.”

Shea kisses Roman, another brush of lips, and says, “Hm. I’d do it again.”

“Yeah?” Roman asks, his voice cracking a little, his face hot in the dark winter air. Shea looks back at the van, and says, “Drive safe.”

Malley and Becket give him the eyebrow when Shea gets behind the wheel. Thank fuck Carter can’t _yet_.

#

Ryan’s place is still a fixer-upper after a year he closed on it. The sliding is still a garish forest-green color, the door has a yellowing storm door in front of it, and the lawn is filled with the first streaks of crabgrass and dandelions, popping up the warmer it gets. Shea shakes his head. Ryan used to mown the lawn obsessively, twice a week on his riding mower, patrolling each green inch for any _encroachment_ with a bottle of RoundUp in his hand.

Shea puts the van in park, turns it off, and goes up the front walkaway. Ryan _has_ been waging his one-man war on Things That Are Not Grass, leaving chemical craters in the lawn, but it still looks like shit.

Before Shea can even test the doorbell, Ryan yanks the front door open, shooting him a dark look before he calls to the kids watching cartoons in the living room, “Daddy and I are going to have a little talk, ok?”

Ryan closes the door behind him, his jaw clenched as he steps down onto the porch. It’ll be a short talk.

It’s March in Minny, Ryan’s not wearing a coat, and Shea is. Ryan clears his throat, “So.”

Shea raises his eyebrow, resisting the urge to fold his arms across his chest. Ryan sighs, looks back at the closed door, and back to Shea, “Are you… _dating_?”

Shea smiles, just enough for his purpose, “Sounds like the trouble duo are stretching the truth a little.”

“If they get attached-–” Ryan says, folding his hands into his armpits, glaring at Shea with his stupid green eyes–-

Shea leans against the door, “Like they did with _you_?”

Ryan blanches, and Shea runs his tongue across the back of his teeth, trying not to keep such obvious score. They’re not arguing. Just having a conversation about where Shea’s going to put his dick. Great. Ryan sighs, and paces the porch, kicking at a small pile of snow before he mutters, “The coach. Really.”

Shea breathes in very slowly. Counts to five. Then breathes out. Counts to ten. He says, “Roman is a perfectly nice guy.”

“To hear the kids talk, it sounds like he shoved his tongue down your throat in the parking lot of _Macaroni Grill_.”

Shea mutters, “I wish,” and when Ryan whips his head towards him, Shea says just a little louder, “It was just a peck. You know how Europeans are.”

“Oh, _how_ the Europeans are,” Ryan mocks, “and do all of the eurotrash you meet stare at your fucking sweatpants dick like they can’t wait to bounce on it?” He steps closer to Shea, “Or maybe he blows you in between periods, getting those nice jeans dirty, choking on–-”

Shea slides out from Ryan and stares at him, his gloves curled into fists and his head pounding, “Is that _hussy_ not enough? Do you have to think about me now? Too–-”

Shea cuts himself off, feeling very cold despite being _upset_ , if that’s the word. He stares out at the grey sky, the dirty pile of slush down by the van, leaning against the creaky porch railing, “You know. We divorced for a reason. We’re not rehashing it again. _Our_ children deserve better. I have never said a negative thing about Zach around them. Because you’re their father. And they deserve to know you and your life. So. Don’t–” he pulls his beanie down, “go all. Whatever the fuck this is. I’ve got a life. You’ve got yours.”

Ryan stares at him, his mouth slightly open. Shea doesn’t look back. Instead, Shea straightens up from the railing and opens the front door, calling “Kiddos! Time to go!”

Becket and Malley power-walk towards Shea, Becket holding Carter, and Shea prays that they didn’t eavesdrop on him and Ryan _this_ time. Becket and Carter walk past Shea and Ryan, while Malley looks between both of them before she joins them by the van.

Shea unlocks the van, and turns to Ryan, “Let’s not have this conversation ever again.” Ryan smiles thinly, “Have a nice week, Shea,” and waves to the kids, “Be good! Study for that math quiz!”

Shea sighs, and walks down to the van. He used to wonder if he made a mistake, divorcing Ryan, not standing by him, but–-

Time heals all wounds, he guesses. And some therapy sessions. He groans internally at having to bring this _episode_ up to Dr. Toni but he’d do it. That’s progress, right? Mentioning a difficult, embarrassing thing despite really not wanting to?

_Yes_ , Shea thinks, smiling at _his_ kids before he drives home.

#

Finding Roman turns out to be easier than Shea thought, especially at this time of the week. Maybe it’s because it’s a Wednesday, or maybe because Shea’s wearing sweatpants again despite his best efforts _not_ to, but he feels a little. Thrown.

Shea didn’t _quite_ have a vision of Roman living a monk-like existence in between those Saturdays, sleeping under a sweater in a bed of goalie pads. Still, it’s a pleasant surprise when he catches him in a small poky office in between practices, sitting on the desk and scribbling on a clipboard. Shea raps his knuckles on the doorway.

Roman looks up, then smiles, “Shea.”

Shea smiles despite himself, and sits down next to Roman. Roman smells good, clean, and Shea watches his fingers jot down surnames, including _Weber Suter_. Roman turns to Shea, licking his lips, “So what brings you here?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have worn the sweatpants. Shea scrubs at his stubble, and says, “Er. Just, um. Are there any rules about–-” he motions between him and Roman, “us?”

Roman blinks, frowns slightly, his eyes looking Shea over, and he rakes his hand through his hair, “You mean, _dating_?”

“Yes, that,” Shea says. Roman looks slightly up, his cheeks a little pink, “Well, ah. That apparently hasn’t come up in this athletic association.”

“At all?”

Roman bites his lips, and Shea glances at the flash of white on pink before he focuses on  _what_ Roman’s saying and not his _mouth_ , and Roman’s smirk tells Shea he’s caught him at it. Roman clears his throat, “Well. I don’t think it’s. Erm. _Needed_? Is that the word?”

Shea leans closer, “No, it’s not like I’m blowing you for first line privileges–-”

Roman parts his lips, maybe staring at Shea’s mouth, and shakes his head, tries, “No, strictly professional, that’s me, Under Tens Coach–-,” curling a hand around Shea’s forearm, his thumb rubbing against the grain of hair there, and Shea whispers, his hand resting high up on a ripped patch on Roman’s jeans, “Very professional–-”

“Fuckin’ A,” Roman mutters, and Shea stiffles a smirk before he runs a thumb down Roman’s chin and kisses him. Roman leans into the kiss, pulling a little on Shea’s hair when Shea scrapes his nail down Roman’s jaw, his breath warm and shuddery. Shea palms Roman’s thigh, his fingertips skimming Roman’s dick as Roman moans just softly enough between them, and kisses him again, bruising his lips on Roman’s stubble.

Roman squirms, pressing his face closer to Shea’s. He slips his hand up to Shea’s chest and squeezes his nipple– his pec– through his shirt, giving a soft _oh_ when he realizes–- yeah. Three kids. Shea shudders, his dick twitching in his sweatpants, feeling tender and  _heavier_ , wet even though he shouldn’t be. Roman leans closer, smoothing his hand over Shea’s chest, “Too much?”

Shea huffs a laugh, his fingers raking through Roman’s hair, “Just unprofessional,” pulls slightly at Roman’s hair enough to rub his mouth along his firm throat, “Which you fucking knew–-”

Roman grins, “Well, I have a hard time resisting… big daddies?”

Shea moans, and eases himself off the desk, “I _knew_ you did that shit on purpose.”

“Well. _Yeah_. So. Yes on, erm, dating?”

Shea narrows his eyes, and whispers, “And what if I just feel like banging the fuck out of you in between charming family outings?”

“That. Would be good,” Roman says, looking Shea up and down, pausing at his crotch, “Especially if you wear those.”

Shea raises his eyebrow, and Roman shrugs before he adds, “So when are you free?”

“I telecommute, so um. Mostly during the day?”

“I work most nights. Stocking,” Roman adds, rubbing the back of his neck, looking a little embarrassed–- but Shea likes the image of Roman bending down and sliding cans on shelves-– “So um. I think we got it backwards. Shouldn’t be coffee, heavy making-out, and  _then_ dinner?”

“I have no idea,” Shea admits. “Coffee? Since we’re being fucking back-ass-wards.”

Roman slides off the desk, looks up at Shea. They’re very close in height, and close enough that Roman has to tilt his head up to lick his lips before he says, “Sure. My treat.”

#

Shea still hasn’t gotten back into the coffee habit after having to kick it when he was carrying Carter. Spending 15 minutes each mornings waiting for coffee to brew _just_ for him is unworkable, and making a half-pot for one just seems. Lonely.

Besides, Shea doesn’t _have_ to get coffee. He orders a hot cocoa, no whipped cream.

_Coffee_ is just code for an easy, breezy date.

Shea’s fairly sure ‘easy, breezy’ wouldn’t be the words to describe himself. Roman, sitting outside, with a painfully yellow scarf, _is_. Breezy. Shea’s hoping Roman’s easy too, but he’s sure calling someone easy is still an insult. He can keep it to himself.

Shea sits down on the chair opposite Roman, the early spring sun hitting his face as he smiles at Roman. It’s still chilly, chilly enough that they’re the only ones out on the patio. The metal chair is cold, even through Shea’s thick pants, and he shifts a little more towards the pale sunlight.

Roman licks his lips, taking in Shea– who has to stamp down on the impulse to suck in his belly-– and says, “Morning.” Shea smiles over his hot cocoa, looking at Roman’s bed hair and his henley, which has a small bleach spot at the collar, and asks, “Not much of a morning person?”

“I can be motivated,” Roman leers over his coffee, “Just takes, how do you say?”

“Incentive?” Shea says, his fingers rubbing across the paper cup, and shifts to block the mild wind blowing in their direction. Roman smiles, enough for Shea to see the small gap in Roman’s lower teeth. It’s weirdly comforting, to know there’s only so much perfection in life. Shea forces down a gulp of hot cocoa, and grimaces at the burn of it down his throat.

He’s not going to be sappy. Sappy’s probably not _in_. Roman slurps at a coffee drop down the side at his cup, his pink tongue pressed flat against the brown paper sleeve, and Shea snorts, “You’re not even trying to be subtle.”

Roman shrugs unapologetically, and takes another sip of his coffee, “Honestly, after the. _Other_ day,” he laughs, “it’s hard not to think about it.”

Shea shifts in his seat, and crosses his legs. Roman blushes, “Am I coming on too hard?”

“Nah,” he says, nudging Roman’s leg with his sneaker, “Just been a while since I’ve been in the game. I didn’t even stay in the game for that long when I was a kid.”

Roman blinks, but he doesn’t ask about Ryan. Thankfully. Roman pulls his puffy coat closer around himself, “Yeah, I hate being rusty,” and Shea must have an incredulous look on his face, “I’m really a homebody. I like routine,” Roman pauses, looking at the metal tabletop, “I really don’t need much.”

“Just someone to call Daddy,” Shea drawls, and Roman buries his head in his gloves, his ears bright red. He looks up at Shea, “Am I that obvious–” he gnaws at his lip, “'Course, if it bothers you, I can _not_ do it?”

Shea leans back in his chair, “You’re your own man, Roman,” his eyes lingering on the way Roman’s scarf drapes around his throat, “You can say whatever.”

Roman quirks an eyebrow, and Shea grins before he adds, “I’m my own man too.” And licks his lips.

Roman mouths _fuck you_ , his lips and cheeks red from the cold, and Shea swallows. He’s got eyes. Roman’s like a nine, and maybe Shea still wants to know _exactly_ why Roman is into him, but there’s no question that Roman _is_. Shea almost never knows when people are flirting with him, never sees it coming.

Good thing Roman’s got lights and sirens on.

Shea finishes his hot cocoa. Roman swirls his empty cup around, and asks, “So when do you have to go back? I don’t want to take you away from work or Carter–” and snorts, “I’m sure the twins are, ah, being good students in school right now.”

Shea shakes his head, “Some of those parent-teacher conferences– Well. Another story for another time. Carter’s getting some quality time with Grandma,” traces a circle on the tabletop, feeling oddly shy, “And well– I got my work out of the way early.”

Roman blushes, looking pleased, and Shea shifts in his seat, “So. I’m free.”

“Your own man,” Roman says, his boot nudging Shea’s thigh. Shea grabs Roman’s ankle, squeezes it. Roman squirms in his chair, his eyes just a little wild and glazed when Shea drags his finger up under Roman’s pant leg. Interesting.

They get up, Roman curling his hand around Shea’s– chapped from the rink and work. Shea slides his fingers in between Roman’s fingers, pulls him close, and grins, “Back-ass-wards time?”

Roman strokes the hairs on the back of Shea’s hand with his thumb, leans in kissing-close, “Yes.”

They trek back to Shea’s van, stepping around the patches of mud and slush. Shea feels giddy, nervous, as he presses Roman up against the passenger side, and smoothes Roman’s scarf as he says, “You’re going to keep your hands to yourself on the way back. Eh?”

Roman pulls Shea closer, his grip hard enough for Shea to feel through his coat, and says, “It’d be… _hard_.”

Shea groans when Roman laughs, and he can’t keep his smile down long enough to manage pulling out of the parking lot. He feels like a teenager, sneaking around and going to, possibly, very much likely, _have sex_ in the middle of the day. They speed a little, nothing bad, just five miles over the limit, and Roman almost jumps him as soon as Shea puts the van into _park_ , his lips dragging over Shea’s beard before he pulls at Shea’s lip with his teeth-–

Shea slaps Roman’s ass, almost biting his tongue at how good it feels, at how Roman rocks his hips against his, “You going to let us get to a bed?”

Roman pants, nods, palming at his pants before he slips out of the van. Shea bites his lip at the throb his dick makes, watching Roman try and fail to be _cool_ for once.

He gets out of the van, presses Roman up against the garage door for a good kiss, his feet one step down from Roman’s and he has to crane his neck _up_ , shuddering at Roman sliding his fingers through his hair, the rub of his thumb on the side of Shea’s neck, right where his pulse is.

Roman makes a frustrated, high-pitched noise, and Shea opens the door, steering him towards the master bedroom. It’s just a few steps away, and Roman smirks when Shea pushes him back onto the bed. He licks his lips, tilts his chin up at Shea, “Come on, I’ll take mine off if you take yours off.”

Shea swallows, feeling cold, and forces out, “Um. I’ve had three kids so-–”

“It’s _you_ , Shea,” Roman says, unbuttoning his pants, “ _Please_ ,” and fuck, Shea’s easier than he thought he would be, watching Roman pull his clothes off and being _naked_ in his bed. Shea yanks off his shirt, and Roman scrambles on his knees, mouthing at Shea’s neck, his hands skimming over those stretch marks, and fuck, Shea has to grab Roman’s dick when he fucking tries to rub off on his _belly_ –-

Roman pants, and Shea curls his hand tight around his dick, tugs on it a little, “Are you going to let me take off my pants?”

“I could blow you if you did,” Roman says, and Shea tightens his grip, flicking his thumb over Roman’s foreskin, “Yeah?”

Roman cups Shea’s soft pecs, rubbing at the hair there, “Yeah.”

Shea kisses Roman, and smirks, “I’ll hold you to that.”

Roman watches Shea hungrily as he pushes his pants down, and Shea can see just when his eyes widens just a little before he looks up at his face, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. Shea laughs, “Jesus, were you expecting that?”

Roman strokes himself, “Um. Sweatpants are very good for you?”

Shea grins, strokes himself, just enough to _show_ Roman, who looks at him even more, his legs pressing against the sheet as he strokes himself _for_ Shea–-

Shea gets onto the bed, right next to Roman’s arm, next to where Roman’s touching himself, the tip of his dick as pink as those lips that Shea kisses, rolling Roman over on his back. He’s impossibly _aware_ of just how good Roman feels, Roman’s thigh working in between his own, and Roman moans as Shea curls a hand over Roman’s dick-–

“Fuck,” Roman says, and Shea lets go, “Too much, baby?”

Roman shakes his head, pushes Shea easily onto his back, “I just have other things in mind,” he breathes, “Like getting to rub off on you. Like. If you let me, then I’d blow you?”

Shea blinks back some dumb tears, and calls himself a fucking sap when Roman turns a deep red, his dick grinding against Shea’s thigh as he says softly, his thumb stroking Shea’s cheek, “You ok?”

He laughs, scrubs at his face with his hand, “Stupid hormones,” curves his hand around Roman’s ass, “Don’t worry about it, eh?”

Roman bites his lip, and nods, trying to look like he’s got it under control, and all Shea knows that he’d let Roman do anything, even if Shea blushes at the thought of Roman’s dick catching against the soft skin on his belly, the little extra he’s still got, the _everything_ , and Roman shudders, “Please, fuck–-” and Shea slides his hand down the small of Roman’s back, scrapes his mouth against Roman’s neck, and he doesn’t _miss_ how that makes Roman spurt some precome onto his belly.

“Go for it, baby,” Shea says, arching his hips up, his hand pressed down on the small of Roman’s back. Roman’s grin turns shaky the more he moves his hips, his lips parted in those soft pants that makes Shea grip Roman’s ass, just to feel him _move_. Roman moans, and Shea kisses his neck, licking his sweat, making Roman curse as he tries to move a little faster–-

He can see Roman shudder as he rubs himself off against Shea, his dick catching on Shea’s belly hair, his hips moving just this side of maddenly slow, and Shea curves a hand over Roman’s dick, pressing it closer to his stomach, says, “Come on, you’re so hot like this, you’ve been needing it, haven’t you?”

Roman palms Shea’s nipple, and Shea jerks, stupidly turned on by having Roman all over him, getting _off_ on him. Shea curls his toes, his thighs straining not to rub himself off against Roman’s trim body, trying to remind himself of that blowjob Roman was so eager to give–-

Roman breathes, something soft and lazy and not English, his eyes a deep green in the curtained light, and comes, right in between Shea’s hand and his belly, his hips rocking as he swears even more in that German, moaning when Shea scrapes his teeth down his neck. The neat teeth marks Shea leave stand out in stark relief when Roman sobs as Shea moves his hand, just to see how much more Roman can come, feeling him get sticky and _soft_ and so, so pink in his grip.

Roman rakes his sweaty hair back, grins, “Not bad, Daddy,” and Shea moans, “Fuck you.”

He leers at Shea, and just-– on impulse-– Shea pulls at Roman’s nipple, making him just _lean_ away just _enough_ for it to be. Interesting. Shea grinds his hips up, and says, “C'mon, you’re good for it, aren’t you,” rubbing Roman’s nipple in very. Specific circles. Roman pushes Shea’s hand off, bitches with a small smile on his face, “You’re so _mean_. Daddy.”

Shea pulls Roman’s hair, and they smirk at each other before he offers, “I could push you down, babe?”

Roman blushes, and slides down, scraping his mouth and hands over as much of Shea as he can reach, making him hot and prickly and _aching_ , and it’s a relief when Roman curls his hand around Shea’s dick, his cheek pressed against it, the slight stubble just rough enough to make the feeling even better.

Shea props himself up on pillows, just to watch Roman close his eyelashes before he slides his lips along Shea’s dick, sucking at the tip. Fuck, Shea missed this, and he presses his feet flat against the sheets, trying to be _polite_ , trying to let Roman swallow around his dick at his own pace, and it’s so–

Roman licks up Shea’s dick, pulling his lips around it just before he pulls away, leaving a thin trail of spit that Shea tries not to _stare_ at so hard that he almost misses Roman saying, “You can hold me down?”

Shea blinks, and Roman clears his throat, his hand so warm and perfect around Shea’s dick, “Like, please facefuck me-–” and Roman’s blushing so hard, it’s great when Roman slides back down, his cheeks hollowing around his dick. Shea moans, strokes Roman’s face, “So good,” and thrusts in carefully–-

Roman moans, almost hurt-sounding, but he sucks harder, bobbing his head, and Shea rests his hand on Roman’s tangled hair, “Yeah, that’s it, god, you look so pretty–-”

Shea’d swears that makes Roman work harder, makes Roman slide a hand up to his nipple to _touch_. Shea presses Roman’s hand flat against his chest, rocking against Roman’s mouth, holding his head still with his hand tangled in Roman’s hair, and fuck, Roman’s rubbing his tongue over the slit, making those wet noises, letting spit drip all over Shea’s balls–-

Roman scrapes his nails over Shea’s pec, digging into the soft skin, and Shea shudders before he thrusts rudely into Roman’s mouth, his breath strangled, everything _perfect-_ –

He comes, stiff and just a little too loud to be _quiet_ , and Roman keeps petting Shea, keeps mouthing at him, getting come all over his face, and fuck, Shea could be a little in love with this. A little in love with Roman, especially when Roman looks up at him with a brick-red face from not being able to breathe, his lips parted in a soft smile that’s _meant_ for him–-

Shea strokes Roman’s face, and Roman kisses him, still trying to get his breath back. Shea makes a soft hum, and Roman doesn’t even have to ask Shea to drape himself against Roman’s side, both of them looking up at the ceiling with stupid smiles on their faces.

Roman strokes Shea’s hair, and Shea feels a twinge of pleasured guilt when Roman says, in a croaky voice, “That was ok.”

Shea hides his grin against Roman’s hair, “Yeah. Suppose it was.”

#

The game board isn’t awash in _blood_. Still, Malley’s shooting her brother the hairy eyeball, watching how many plastic coins Becket is hoarding at the moment. He rolls high, making Malley groan very dramatically when he pulls another card from the deck. Roman squints at his own stack of coins and asks Malley, “If I ally with you?”

Malley hums, looking at Ryan holding a full hand of cards, and tells Roman, “Just until we get out of the green side.” Roman pauses, and says, “Ok. Shake?”

They shake hands. Shea looks across the table at Roman, nudging his leg with his socked foot, “That isn’t in the rules.”

“Damn right it isn’t,” Ryan mutters, taking a sip of water before he adjusts his coins.

Shea could ally with Ryan. But Ryan’s always been too conservative playing this game, and Shea knows from grueling, heart-rending experience with the twins that the faster he can go the more of the board he can take over. And hopefully beat them.

Roman shrugs, “Take it up with Becket-–” nodding towards Becket, flipping through the thin paper brochure that has various pencil marks and scribbles all over it. The game’s a work in progress. Especially since Shea would very much like to win. Becket shrugs, “No rules about it. I’m going with Dad,” and scoots closer to Shea.

Ryan raises his eyebrows, muttering under his breath. Shea isn’t heartbroken over Ryan getting set up to lose hard at Family Game Night, even though inviting Ryan wasn’t his idea. Or Ryan’s. Ryan would rather walk on hot coals than admit he occasionally likes spending time with his own children.

Roman may have suggested it. Shea wouldn’t say Roman persuaded him with blow jobs, but maybe he had a point when he said in Shea’s ear, playing with his chest hair, “Don’t you think you should show you can at least stand him? Just enough for the kids to have a _good_ night?” Then he sucked Shea off so hard Shea thinks he’s still feeling it.

So. Ryan’s here, quietly annoyed at how much he’s missed out on the kids’ development and trying to be  _aggressively_ polite to Roman.

Shea sighs. He clucks Carter’s chin, who smiles up at him, showing two little teeth and making cute little giggles. Carter is perfectly restful after having Malley and Becket. Malley turned out to be an early talker, screaming at age two, “That lady looks mean!” in the middle of the bakery section of the grocery store and Becket didn’t say a word until he was almost four. Carter wraps fingers around Shea’s finger, and Shea coos before he looks at the coffee table.

Becket narrows his eyes in concentration, and steals three of Ryan’s pieces just after Ryan has him surrounded. “Hah!” he crows, and Ryan shakes his head, almost smiling against his will. None of them’d let the twins win-– they all know where the kids got the insane competitiveness from-– but it turns out the twins are _lucky_ tonight. Despite Ryan stacking the deck. Roman looks at the board, his coins trickling towards the red zone, and says to Shea, “Two against one isn’t fair.”

Malley pats Roman on the arm, “Can’t win every one,” and Roman’s got the look of someone who’s had his words turned onto him.

Shea bites his lips to keep from laughing, and pulls Carter close, “Bedtime, kiddo. Time to say night-night.” Both Becket and Malley plant wet smooches right in the center of Carter’s forehead, making Carter grimace. Ryan laughs, rubs a thumb over Carter’s face, “Gets worse, kiddo.”

Roman rolls his eyes, and Ryan shrugs, “It’s mostly true.”

Roman clenches a smile, “Mostly. I thought Americans were optimists?”

“It’s the midwest,” Ryan snorts, “Optimism is for the coasts.” Roman snorts, against his well, and strokes his chin with his middle finger just enough to flip Ryan off. Ryan doesn’t even look _bothered_ , just resigned to losing the game. Shea stands up, Carter on his hip, “Our kids are _half_ -Canadian. Thank you very much.”

Shea walks out just as Becket tries to sing _O Canada_.

Carter only fusses a little, and Shea comes back into the living room just as Roman thumbs his nose at Ryan. Ryan shoots Shea a look, on the verge of calling Roman a _manchild_ , and Shea smiles just a little meanly.

“So, who won?”

Malley stirs a coin around the coffee table, “Roman did,” resting her face on her hand. Becket points out, “You at least have more coins than Pa,” and Ryan shrugs. Roman helps the kids put away the game, sliding the coins into ziplock bags. Ryan gets up, saying a quick goodnight to them before he walks towards the foyer. Shea doesn’t want to walk him out.

He does. Fucking ingrained manners.

Shea hands Ryan his jacket. Ryan looks back at the living room, and sighs, “I fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Shea says flatly. Ryan rakes a hand through his hair, raising a thin eyebrow, “Tonight wasn’t your idea.”

Shea doesn’t have to answer that, and Ryan shoots him a smile, almost enough to remind Shea why in the fuck they got together all of those years ago. Ryan clears his throat, “Roman seems like a good guy.”

Shea stamps down on the sarcastic impulse to say _thank you for your approval_ and instead goes with, “He is.”

It’s never going to be easy talking with Ryan. That doesn’t mean he has to make it hard. Shea’s got nothing to prove. Ryan on the other hand–-

Ryan shoves his hands in his pockets, “Thank you. I–-.” He stops, his eyes blinking as he stares at an old picture, one of his dad holding Becket. He swallows, and takes a deep breath, “I’ve got to get going. I have the lawn guy coming over tomorrow. Got to have the greenest lawn on the block.”

Shea watches Ryan get into his pick-up and drive away. Ryan never manages to say what he’s thinking. Shea’s willing to admit to himself that he likes Ryan having to _deal_ with regret. Let him do the heavy lifting for once.

Roman comes up besides him, and curls his arms around Shea, pressing his chin up on his shoulder, “No one died,” and Shea laughs. He turns towards Roman, and kisses him, “Is that an happy ending?”

Roman curls his hand over Shea’s ass, and waggles his eyebrows, “Could be. Want to help me persuade the terrors not sleeping will stunt their growth?”

Shea laughs, “Practice makes perfect, babe.”

He closes the front door. He’s ready to say good night.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr!](http://www.hastybooks.tumblr.com)


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